Coffee
by bec1001
Summary: Jude left her music career, Toronto, and Tommy behind a long time ago. When he finds her unexpectedly in Los Angeles, Tommy struggles to convince the girl who he never forgot to reclaim the life she thought was far behind her.
1. The Elevator

**Hi everyone-- I'm a huge Instant Star fan and this is just one of the stories that has been circulating in my head for a while. Should be at least 5 or 6 chapters, depending on how long each of them turns out to be. Let me know what you think!**

**1. The Elevator**

"You always struck me as a girl who would buy a house."

She whirled around, but she didn't need to. She would know that voice anywhere. It was in her dreams, her daydreams, and her memories. It was a part of her every day. She stood in the lobby, waiting quietly for the elevator to take her up to her _apartment_.

"I didn't," she said simply. He paused at her few words and the fact that she had barely turned. He stepped around her, forcing their eyes to meet.

"Hi, Jude." He said, looking at her deeply, thoroughly, not leaving any part of her untouched by his probing, devastating blue eyes. She felt naked and vulnerable and afraid of the power of those eyes.

"Hi, Tommy," she responded, smiling shyly. How had they ended up in the same building, waiting for the elevator at the same time? What was he even doing here? Why this moment?

"You didn't buy a house."

"Nope." The elevator arrived and they both stepped in. Jude wished that someone else would run into the lobby, calling loudly for her to "hold it open!", but nobody came. The doors closed. He pressed 12 and she moved to press 17, but he stood in her way first, and asked her what floor she was headed to, so he pressed it for her. They did the awkward dance of elevators.

"Everyone thought you bought a house."

"They were wrong." She wasn't being very nice, she knew that, but she couldn't help it. Keeping an edge was the only way to protect her soft, damageable heart.

"Do you like it?"

"Like what?" What was he talking about? Still her damn apartment?

"I don't know. Los Angeles? Your life now? I haven't heard from you in a long time."

"You didn't want to," she reminded him, and he winced—harsh but true. He hated looking back at his cruel past, the damage he'd caused.

The doors swung open. Perfect timing. He glanced at her. He was still biting his lip.

"Would you come in for some coffee?" He asked. She looked away. "Jude. Please. Just a coffee. Just a few minutes?"

"Okay." She should have resisted, but sometimes, it was _so _hard to be strong. Especially in an elevator with those eyes. She stood beside him as he unlocked the apartment with his own keys. She wondered whose apartment this was. She had never seen him in the building, and she'd been around for a while, now. It wasn't his own apartment, then. But she hoped he had enough tact not to invite her for coffee at some girl's place.

He knew she seemed confused, and before she could speak, he did. "It's my cousin's place. Stella. I'm staying with her for a while—she just moved in."

Ah, Stella. Jude had met her a few times back in Toronto. One of the only family members Tommy had retained contact with long after his boy-band days. At least it wasn't some girlfriend, some woman Jude had never met.

"One sugar, no milk?" He barely needed to ask. Her hair was still cropped and blond, curling in near her dainty chin, her face still wide-open with youth, her tight black jeans, tapered at the ankle—all still the same. Her coffee order had not changed in the time they'd been apart, either.

"Yep," she responded. She sat down on a red stool at the kitchen island as he set the coffee maker whirring. The apartment was the same as her own—the same layout, with the awkward square kitchen, generously sized entryway, living room off to the left with a view. Jude knew there would be a bedroom straight ahead and a larger one on the right. The one on the right would have fantastic built-in bookshelves. Apartment life.

"Do you like Los Angeles?" Tommy pressed. He wanted her to say something, to say anything, but she was sitting quietly playing with the napkin he'd placed in front of her, so he was forced to incite the conversation himself.

"Not much," she admitted with a wan smile. "The weather is nice, I'll give it that. I used to love it."

"Stella says that everyone loves it for a year and hates it for the rest of their lives."

"I've been here for two years. Stella's right."

He nodded and came around the island, resting a mug purchased at a museum gift shop, full of coffee with one sugar, on a blue plastic placemat in front of her. He sat down next to her, scooting gently away so they weren't too close. He didn't want to scare her away with his intimacy. She was already in his cousin's apartment, and they hadn't seen each other in _so _long.

"Do you live here?" She asked him honestly, and he smiled.

"No, no, I couldn't. I stay with Stella when I have work out here, which is more and more often. I'm mostly in Toronto, still."

"Good old Toronto," Jude said, a hint of nostalgia lacing her tone. She had been dying to get back and visit, but she hadn't found the time. Or maybe she hadn't made the time. She wasn't sure which.

"Still the best city on earth," Tommy promised. "Even if it hasn't seen its brightest star in a while."

She raised her eyebrows. Its brightest star? What was he implying? It had been a long time since those days, and he knew it. It wasn't right of him to have brought that up. She frowned. The only reason Los Angeles still appealed to her was that it was still anonymous, still random, without those memories—that remembrance of being a star—tracing her footsteps. L.A. afforded her that small, precious freedom. He had quickly and decisively ruined it.

"I'm sorry." He backtracked, seeing her reaction. "Shouldn't have said that."

"That's alright." She astounded herself with her forgiveness. Why hadn't she been more agreeable back then? She wasn't having as hard a time with that now. "Just a word—it shouldn't bother me."

"Does it?"

Did he want a heart-to-heart? This was too emotional, too deep, for an old acquaintance found in an elevator.

Well, he was more than an old acquaintance after all. She knew that.

"It does bother me," she admitted, with a level of honesty and openness she hadn't allowed to come forth in a long time. "That's not who I am anymore. I'm not a singer. I'm not in magazines, or albums, or a studio. I've moved on. I wish Toronto had moved on too."

"You're indelible to everyone you touched." There he went again, with his ability to say the kindest things at the wrong time in the wrong way. Why was he being so complimentary, so sweet, when it mattered the least? When she wanted him to be as biting as she managed to be?

"Tommy."

"I'm sorry, Jude." He sighed, shaking his head, forcing himself to move on. "So? What are you doing now, then?"

"I do book jackets."

"Book jackets?" He almost smirked before he saw she wasn't joking.

"I design the way the jacket is formatted." He still looked quizzical. "You know. The little summary and the quotes from reviews, on the inner edge."

"Oh," he nodded, finally understanding. "Book jackets."

"I did an album cover for a band, and then I realized I liked it. So I moved on to book jackets. I don't like being too near to the music anymore."

"I wouldn't have guessed book jackets."

"Most people don't. It's nice having a job that you leave at night, though."

He knew what she meant—a job you left at night as opposed to a job that consumed you, a job that became who you were (as you became your job). Music was a profession, but the music industry was a life. Jude had been swept up, quickly and mercilessly, in the flood of the industry. Her job had become her day and her night, her private and her public. Book jackets seemed like a good alternative.

"I don't read much," Tommy admitted.

"I know," Jude smiled warmly. She still knew him, after all.

"Would I have seen one of your jackets, though?" He asked.

"I've been doing a bunch of historical fiction, lately."

They both grinned. "So probably not," she laughed.

"Probably not," he confirmed. "I'm behind on my historical fiction."

"Figured you would be," she held in a chuckle. It was funny to laugh about a characteristic of someone's personality, of someone's being, so long after you had really known that person. There were some things that were permanent, that didn't go away, even with the passage of time. The comfort was too comfortable, then, so she paused for a long sip of perfect coffee.

"What are you doing now?" She asked, genuinely curious. She had resisted their rendezvous, but once they were together, she wanted to get the update anyway.

"Producing, mostly. I write, too."

"You never went solo," she noted.

"So you have been paying attention," he smiled genially. "No, I never got back into my own music again. Too personal."

"You should have," she told him. "You're too good to write things for silly pop stars." Now she was the one being complimentary, but she wasn't trying to. The words just came out of her, naturally. They were true, of course. Tommy was far more talented than his producing and writing would ever express.

"Who said I'm writing for silly pop stars?" He retorted, with a grin. She sent him a look and he conceded. "Alright, fine. Maybe _some _silly pop stars. And only because the stars I'd actually prefer writing for keep themselves in books."

"Hey!" She laughed at his subtle dig, but they were back to their comfortable back-and-forth, the banter they had perfected during long nights in the studio at GMajor. It felt like a lifetime ago, her teenage years in Toronto, high school during the day and the studio in the afternoons and evenings, singing and recording, Tommy always by her side.

"Do you ever want it back?" He asked, turning serious once more.

"Sometimes," she admitted. She hadn't admitted this to anyone. Sadie would nag her, sometimes, knowing that a part of her little sister would always be missing without the music that kept her alive. Jamie would send her rant-filled emails about the crap on the radio, and about how Jude had to get back into the business if only to save his weak ears. But Jude had never let herself say it out loud—say that sometimes she wanted it, wanted the music, wanted the feeling of strumming the same two chords over and over again until you found the correct lines that fit into them, the best feeling in the world. She wondered how Tommy, in mere minutes, had gotten that admission out of her.

"You know—"

"Tommy." She knew exactly what he was proposing, and she shut him down before he could go any further. She was too exhausted to let this argument progress. He could tell, too. There was a dullness in her big blue eyes—"Big Eyes," he had once called her—a dullness that belied the iron boundary she had placed around her soul. Tommy could read her, still could, years later, and he could read right through those seemingly impenetrable walls.

"Remember when you bargained with Darius into getting 'Frozen' back?" He inquired. Frozen had been his long-ago solo attempt, ended before it had begun. Jude had wanted him to follow through with it so badly. She believed in his talent even when he did not believe in it himself.

"Don't compare me to 'Frozen,' " Jude replied, rolling her eyes at him. Another sip of coffee.

"I'm not. You're much, much better than that, Jude," Tommy said with a laugh. "I just think you're trying to let go of something that is a part of you. You can't let it disappear so easily. It's never going to go away."

"I have a life that has no music in it," Jude reminded him. "It's calm. I have a routine. I wake up in the morning and I know what's going to happen, and I go home at night and I cook dinner and see friends and sometimes I meet a guy who has no idea what my history is like"—Tommy blinked, hurt almost, but she kept going—"and there is no drama or chaos or people talking behind my back, or in a magazine, or taking pictures of me when I'm going to yoga class. And it is _so _nice to have that."

"But is it worth it? To not have that feeling of being on stage? Because once upon a time you lived for that, Jude."

"I've grown up," she told him, shrugging. She got up off her stool somewhat abruptly, and Tommy looked startled. "Thank you for the coffee. I'll see you around."

"At least let me—" He walked with her to the door, but she cut him off.

"Bye, Tommy Q." And then she was gone, one last blue-eyed gaze, and she was out the door.


	2. The Meal

**Here's the next chapter. Thanks for being patient, I tend to write in bursts. Let me know what you think!**

**2. The Meal**

Stella leaned in the doorway, looking at her younger cousin in a knowing way. They had become closer as adults, and Tommy stayed with her whenever he needed to be in L.A. It was nice to have that connection in such a fractured family as theirs.

"Tom." Tommy looked up quickly from his spot on the sofa, where he had been reading the latest industry magazine.

"Hi, Stell," he smiled. "How was work?"

"Two coffee cups, huh?" She asked, ignoring his question entirely and starting right in with one of her own. "I saw them in the sink. You get really thirsty?"

"Funny, Stella," Tommy responded, rolling his eyes at her. "Jude lives in this building."

"I know," she replied, crossing her arms over her chest. "So—"

"You knew?" Tommy cried, standing up. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I only moved in here last week, and you came in yesterday and practically went right to bed because of jet lag, so it's not like I'm keeping secrets here," Stella said defensively. "I was chatting with a neighbor a few days ago. She seemed a little star-struck and mentioned that Jude Harrison lives here. She apparently tries to live really anonymously."

"I saw her in the elevator and practically had to drag her with me for a cup of coffee," Tommy lamented.

"Dude, you are so far in love with that girl, still," Stella laughed.

"No I'm not!" Tommy argued.

"Yes, you totally are," Stella smirked. "Don't lie, Tommy. Don't deny it. Just go get her."

"It's not that easy. She doesn't even like hearing about anything having to do with her past life. She completely shuts down. She doesn't even do music anymore."

"Well, change that," Stella replied, as though it were a no-brainer. Her cousin, for all his musical prowess and business acumen, could be incredibly thick. "Make her embrace all of that again. You know you can. And if I recall, she was too talented to be doing anything else but music."

"I know," Tommy sighed. "I just have to make her see that."

…..

Jude came home from work exhausted. She had bought new pumps that were now killing her feet, her editor had been a bitch all day, and she wasn't happy with the final copy for the summary for the latest World War II saga, either. Further, she'd spilled her latte all over her desk upon sitting down at work that morning. Nothing had gone right.

She hit play on her answering machine, doubting she would have any calls. She had friends, sure, but usually they just called her cell phone. Then she heard his voice. Jesus Christ. He had called her.

"Hey Jude, it's Tommy. Listen, I know I caught you off-guard yesterday, and I'm sorry about that. I really want to see you again—I want us to be friends. Let me know if you'll go out for dinner, tonight or tomorrow maybe? My number is…"

Jude hit pause on the machine while she tried to collect herself. Her breathing had quickened during the brief message. She wondered if she could last through a dinner with him. More practically, she wondered if she'd get noticed if someone noticed Tommy first. She had worked so hard to protect her life, her small life in L.A., from the trappings of fame she'd left far behind in Toronto. Tommy was far more famous than she'd ever been—Boyz Attack trumped Instant Star—and she worried that the media would go back to their old games if someone sighted Little Tommy Q with the elusive Jude Harrison at some restaurant near Hollywood. But she had to call him back.

"Hello?"

"Hi, it's Jude."

"Jude!" He sounded so excited. She hated to break his heart this way, she really did.

"Look, Tommy, I've been really swamped with work, and I'm really tired—"

"Tomorrow night then, for dinner?"

"I have a work meeting, I'm sorry," she lied, hating herself for doing it.

"Then how about I come over now and cook you dinner?"

"You cook?" She was so surprised that she forgot to turn him down immediately, as had been her plan.

"I cook," Tommy replied. "Pretty much anything you want."

Jude sighed. She usually ordered in pizza or Chinese for dinner, or made herself some scrambled eggs, which were as far as her own culinary skills went. But she could really go for a legitimate homemade meal right now.

"Come on over, then," she said. "17th floor."

"See you in a few minutes," he replied, and they hung up.

Jude wondered if she should change her clothes. She decided against it, but did apply a fresh coat of mascara and brush her hair a little. Then she decided she shouldn't put so much effort into it. This was just a casual dinner as friends. But she knew that there was an underlying…something—that could never be erased. Before she could think too deeply, the doorbell rang, and it was Tommy, with two armfuls of groceries in brown paper bags.

"Wow," Jude laughed. "You cooking for an army?"

"The way you eat, if I remember correctly," he laughed, "is not unlike an army."

"Ouch," she smirked, but didn't refute his claim. "What did you bring?"

"Chicken—I make a mean chicken scallopini—potatoes, spinach—"

"Sounds perfect."

"I forgot wine," he noted apologetically.

"I have enough wine to serve to an army and all their closest friends," Jude laughed. They made eye contact for a long moment, before Jude looked away quickly. "I can't cook for my life, but I can handle the wine."

"Good," Tommy said. "As long as we've got wine."

…..

"We're drunk, Little Tommy Q," laughed Jude, finishing off her piece of chicken. Tommy had been correct. His cooking was excellent. Even his sautéed spinach had been delicious, and Jude didn't even like vegetables that much at all.

"No, you're drunk, Big Eyes," Tommy replied, smiling. He had had at least two or three glasses, but Jude was probably past six. She was thoroughly tipsy.

"How weird is this, Tommy," Jude said, in a moment of calm. "You, me, Los Angeles, having dinner…"

"I don't think it's that weird," Tommy replied. "Doesn't this feel right?"

"Tommy."

"No, Jude, it does," he said, more firmly, his voice a bit louder. He put his silverware down next to his plate, gathering his courage, knowing she'd get upset but unable to stop himself. "This feels _so _right."

"Tommy, I haven't seen you in years," Jude argued weakly.

"Doesn't that prove what I said even more?"

"No, Tom. It means this is a nice moment in a longer story that wasn't always very nice at all," Jude reminded him pointedly, wishing he would drop it so they could have some after-dinner coffee and finish off the evening in a pleasant manner. "Don't you remember how terrible it all was?"

"Of course I do, Jude. It was terrible for me too."

"No," she said, strongly, looking him in the eye. There was anger in her voice, in her face. Anger she hadn't gotten rid of after years, after so many days of wondering and thinking and mulling it all over, wondering where they had gone wrong, where _she _had gone wrong. "No. You can't say that to me now, not after I cried so hard over you."

She was only saying these things because the wine had loosened her up considerably. Tommy recognized that. But he needed to hear these words, the pain in her tone as she spoke them. He deserved it. He knew that.

"When I left you a million voice mails and you never returned a single one of them, when my emails got bounced back…I wrote you a fucking letter, Tommy. A letter. In the 21st century, the only way I thought you might hear me out was in a goddamn letter." She was standing, now, her chair shoved back sharply, a hideous noise as it scraped against hardwood floors. Her words were vicious. She was cursing, too—and she hardly ever cursed. "You cannot hop back into my life because you saw me in an elevator and pretend that this is meant to be…"

"I'm not pretending—" he said, before he could stop himself. Her eyes were cold and icy as she glared at him, cutting off his words with just a look.

"I'm sorry, Tom. I'm sorry it has to be this way. When I went to London I tried everything, anything, for you to just hear me out. You wouldn't even hear me out." She shook her head—bitter, hurt, disappointed—still. "And now I'm 22 fucking years old and I can't let you back in like I did if you're just going to break me like that. I have more respect for myself."

She walked away from the table. He was silent, unable to find the words, any words, that could fix this in even the most partial way.

"You can see yourself out, Tommy," she said. "For good."

And then she walked quickly past the kitchen and into her bedroom, closing the door sharply. She belly-flopped onto her bed, buried her face in her largest pillow so that he couldn't hear her, and she started to sob.

She dampened the pillow, sure her mascara was smearing like crazy, just wishing she wouldn't have ever agreed to the dinner, agreed to coffee just the previous day. God, that stupid coffee—it had ruined everything. No, she corrected herself, _he _had ruined everything.

Then she felt a warm hand on her back, and she flipped over, sliding into a sitting position. "What the _fuck_, Tommy! I told you to _leave_!"

She was screaming now, belligerent almost, furious that he had the audacity to enter her bedroom, with the door shut, after saying those things to her, those things she would have amputated a leg to hear from him just a few years back, when she was lonely and miserable in London and he wouldn't even pick up his damn phone to listen to her voice mails.

"Jude—"

"No, Tommy, I mean it." She got very quiet. "I can't let you in like that anymore."

"I've grown up, Jude, I really have. Things are different now."

She looked at him for a long moment. He thought she was reassessing, reevaluating them, but really she was just choosing her words.

"I grew up, Tommy. I was the one who was sixteen years old when I met you. So six years later, yes, I have grown up, like I rightfully should have. But _you_, Tommy? You were grown up when I met you! You have been an adult every single day since I've known you! I was a child, Tommy, and I let you in so close, and over and over again, you just discarded me, just abandoned me, like—"

"Don't say it," he said swiftly. "Don't say it because I hate myself for what I did to you."

"You did it over and over again! You just kept leaving me and distancing yourself from me…I was a _kid_, Tommy. I was so young and you just messed with me so bad!"

"I know that, Jude. I know that now! Don't you think I look back at how happy we were, sometimes, just in the studio and messing around and doing whatever, and I think about how I fucked that all up with my stupid games? I know how wrong I was! And I know I can't give you everything you want, everything you deserve to have, but Jesus Christ, Jude, I look at you and I just can't help myself because I know that nobody gets me like you do, nobody can make me feel okay like you can…" He trailed off, knowing he was rambling and that it was probably futile at this point. He felt like an idiot for having barged in on her when he knew she was so upset and was only going to get more upset.

"I'm sorry," he said, earnestly, looking at her deeply. "I'll go now. I'm so sorry."

And in that moment, as she watched his back moving towards the door of her bedroom, Jude realized that she did not want him to leave.

She closed her eyes, wishing the situation could somehow uncomplicate itself, realizing it would not, and then rushed toward him, grabbing him by the shoulders, swiveling him around so her face was mere inches from his, and then she gave in and kissed him.

And God, that kiss felt like she was sixteen again, like she was playing guitar and singing her heart out and he was kissing her and kissing her and kissing her on the balcony and she was so young and it was so wrong but she had never felt that good before and as soon as it happened she wanted only for him to kiss her again. That was all she wanted, all she had ever wanted. For him to hold her and kiss her and tell her to try that chorus one more time, with less finger noise this time.


	3. The Starbucks and the Song

**Hi everyone, I just wanted to say thank you for the wonderful response this story has garnered. I welcome your compliments and critique and hope that you all continue reading. Just so you all know, there should be at least two or three more chapters after this one. Thanks!**

**3. The Starbucks and the Song**

Jude woke up slowly, cracking her eyes open to adjust to the light coming in through the large windows of her penthouse apartment. She loved those windows, but not this morning, when she had forgotten to close the blinds so she could sleep once the sun was up.

She noticed a weight to the right of her in bed and realized, all of a sudden, that it was the weight of Tommy Quincy. She knew they had done nothing but kiss and lie in her bed, his arms wrapped around her like nothing had changed, but she still felt the pounding in her head—and not just from the wine she'd consumed the previous night—that she had done something egregiously wrong.

They had not slept together. Well, _slept slept _together. Jude was glad that as much as she might have wanted to, they did not let things get that far. It would have been simply a release of frustration and pent-up anger, and though Jude loved her adventures and exploits, she was still of the belief that going that far should mean something more than _I'm still really attracted to you but I'm also really pissed off_. So at least that hadn't happened.

But there was still an intimacy in waking up at 7:06 on a weekday morning and seeing Tommy sleeping, his lips curled into a smile, on the other side of her bed. He was in her room, the room she'd decorated when she'd arrived in L.A., the light-blue-painted room that no one from Toronto had ever even seen. Los Angeles had become her sanctuary, her anonymity, and her sacred place—a place where no one from her old life could find her. And now, suddenly, she had been found. Found by Tommy, who was now in her bed.

She got up, took her usual long, hot shower, and peeked to see if he had woken up. He hadn't. She got dressed for work, put on a little mascara to mask her tired eyes, and threw a banana in her purse for later. And then she slipped out her door, closing it quietly so as not to disturb him. She couldn't deal with his peering gaze this morning, his insistent words (_Didn't this feel right, Jude? You wanted this, Jude. I know you did. Let me in, Jude. Let me see the real you—) _and his adorable boyish requests to see her again.

She drove to work too quickly, the freeway her in-between, a place void of Tommy and the monotony of her job, void of human contact and all those things she just couldn't deal with at the moment. She was driving so quickly in such a state of mental paralysis that she even forgot to stop at the Starbucks half a mile away from her office building. She veered into the parking lot beneath her building, rushing into the elevator, not sure why she was moving so fast other than a strong feeling of wanting, somehow, to escape the narrow, claustrophobic confines of her life.

"Morning, Jude," her overly friendly coworker, Andy, said too loudly over the barrier that separated their cubicles.

"Morning, Andy," she said, looking down, not in the mood to be polite.

"You look tired," Andy commented. "Rough night?"

_You have no fucking idea_, Jude thought to herself. "Just tired, Andy."

"You working on the Monroe book right now? Because I just heard that…"

She only heard his words as noise as she looked at her desk. Same as always—her messy stacks of paper to deal with at some point, various post-it notes littering the surface, pens and paper clips and trusty highlighter, dizzying screen saver bouncing across her monitor. Her eyes widened. There was a ring that had formed where a million cups had stained the desk's gray surface, the heat and dampness seeping through. She saw the ring, but not the cup. Where was her coffee? Where the _fuck _was her coffee? Had she forgotten to get coffee? Today, of all days, when her head was pounding and she felt like she was in a permanent cold sweat, today, she needed it the most. There was no way she was going to get through this morning without her Starbucks. She sighed heavily.

"Hey Andy? Can you just tell Jonas that I forgot my notes at home and I'll be back in fifteen minutes, tops?"

"Don't want to look bad to the boss, Jude," Andy said with a snarky, knowing grin like a Cheshire Cat. Jude didn't even want to look at him.

"Thanks, Andy," Jude said airily, nearly flying to the elevator. Goddamn it. She needed that coffee right now. She felt like she was going to scream. It was all closing in way too fast. A million memories, a million individual moments, felt like they were shooting painfully through her mind. The chords to a song that had always played in her head were playing still, too loud, way too loud, interrupting her thoughts, throwing her into a daze—

"Jesus Christ." Her mouth fell into an O with her words as she stepped out of the elevator, her feet stopping short on the marble floors of the lobby of the enormous office building where her publishing company had office space. Around her were the typical drones in ties and starched shirts and shoulder-padded pantsuits, sensible shoes and briefcases, loud talking on Bluetooth devices. And in the midst it all, there he was—Tommy, oh Tommy—holding her venti cup.

"You forgot to stop for it," Tommy said, simply.

"I never told you I stop at Starbucks in the morning."

"Jude, you've _always_ stopped at Starbucks in the morning."

She drew in a sharp breath. He was right, of course. She had had her cup before every studio rehearsal and recording session in Toronto, just like she always had her cup sitting over the ring-shaped desk stain now, a thousand lifetimes away, at her book company in Los Angeles.

"What is it?" She breathed, nodding her head towards the cup.

"Venti soy latte, extra foam," he said without thinking. She knew that he knew that Starbucks order like clockwork, but to hear him say it was like music to her ears.

He passed the cup to her, and she took it, appreciating the warm cardboard against her hand. She took her first sip.

"Orgasmic," she declared softly, choosing her word deliberately, smiling at him. He braced his jaw firm, swallowing thickly, as he watched her pink tongue sweep up to lick the foam from her tempting upper lip.

She felt an inner calm, standing there silently with him. It was the comfort of having him right there, having him know her so deeply, know her coffee preference—for god's sake, that meant _everything_. The buzz that ran inside her head was stilled, quieted, by the peace she felt, even in the lobby at her office.

"Dinner? Tonight?" She asked quietly, not wanting to seem too forward. He smiled broadly, genuinely, letting it reach his eyes. She was so happy to see him so happy.

"That sounds perfect, girl," he said, and she closed her eyes slightly to savor it—_girl_—they had come a far way from it and yet it felt, somehow, like they hadn't been away at all.

"I have to, um, go back up there," she said, nodding her head towards the elevator. "Thanks for the coffee."

"Enjoy it," he said, turning to leave and walking away. She smiled as she watched him go—she _would_ enjoy it.

…..

"I'm running late," Tommy said apologetically when she called around seven from her apartment. "I'm so sorry."

"It's okay," she said, sensing his sincerity. "Really, Tommy, it's okay. How about I pick you up from work?"

"You'd do that?"

"Sure. Text me the address," she declared. She knew her intentions were a double-edged sword: she was certainly happy to pick him up, but more than that, she wanted desperately to see the studio, a GMajor corollary, where he was working. She wasn't sure how much time in L.A. he had left—she knew his work was mostly in Toronto and he only came stateside for more mainstream acts that wouldn't travel to Canada for his widely renowned skills as a producer. So she wanted to make sure she saw the studio while she had the chance. It was the peephole into a world she had abandoned long ago, and she was curious to see how that world had changed since she'd seen it last.

The L.A. traffic was lost on Jude as she drove absentmindedly to the address Tommy had sent. It wasn't far from her office building, actually, right in the heart of downtown. L.A. was a funny, sprawling city with a million personalities all wrapped into one. It was nice, sometimes, knowing that so many types of people could all exist within a handful of zip codes, but it made her miss her own zip code in Toronto, where one could find her favorite record store and her favorite vintage clothing shop and her friends and her family. She was tired of the smog, of annoying Andy in the next cubicle over at work, and of this _goddamn traffic_.

The girl at the desk had sharp, razor-cut bangs that were purposefully raggedy. Heavy black eyeliner ringed her squinted eyes. She stared at Jude through her bangs, glaring at her before she had said a word.

"I'm here for Tom Quincy?" Jude said. "He's a producer here…"

"Yeah, yeah," the girl smirked. Jude realized that _obviously he was a producer, he was Tom Quincy, everyone knew who he was_. But the girl, bored expression sitting on her face, pointed Jude in the direction of Tommy's studio anyway.

She knocked on the tinted-glass door, unable to see in. His name was printed on a card taped to the door, so she knew she was in the right place. She cracked the door open, hoping she wasn't interrupting anything, and realized the studio was empty.

She looked gleefully around the workspace, a producing heaven—the sound board, with all those glorious buttons, a mike, mixing equipment—and then glanced at the most beautiful guitar she thought she'd ever seen. She drew in a gasp, unable to control herself, to prevent that inner musician from sneaking out of the cage she kept it in, deep inside herself. She reached out to touch the strings, letting her index finger brush them gently, tempting her with their subtle sounds.

When Tommy entered the room, he was surprised to find Jude sitting cross-legged on the leather couch in his studio, playing a series of basic chords over and over like she had never played a guitar before. He stood in the entryway where she couldn't see him, and he simply watched as she got more and more involved, her fingers dancing faster and faster, playing more complicated combinations. Her eyes were alight like they had been when she was a teenager, when she had just won Instant Star. He had been dazzled, then, by the life and energy she pumped into the instrument, and he still was. She was a force to be reckoned with, musically and personally, he knew that well. But watching her—well, watching her was a whole other story.

Then she closed her eyes, frowned, and began to play a Jude Harrison classic, "White Lines." God, Tommy loved that song. She played it perfectly, still, not a strum out of place. He watched her delicate fingers move across the strings with an innate understanding of the guitar. She had said it had been years since she'd played, but you wouldn't have known it. Mechanically it was flawless, and emotionally it was as raw and real as it was when she'd first written the music, a million moons or so ago. She would never stop astounding him, Tommy thought to himself.

Then he heard her voice—Jesus, he thought, that perfect voice—layered over the guitar. He was immediately thrown into a hazy recollection of the day they'd recorded that song.

_White lines, and headlights in my eyes_. She had sung it in the bus, with twinkling lights around her as she gave it her all. He knew how personal that song was. She could hardly look at him when they'd tried to give it a go in the studio. She couldn't let him in that deep, because she knew how badly it would hurt. In the bus, though, she could look down at him with his gear outside, near and yet far, and sing her heart out.

_White lines, I'm ready to drive all night; white lines, how many till I'm in your arms?_ As he watched her now, in an entirely foreign studio in L.A., Tommy wondered exactly that. How long would it take? Her hair was still short and blond, cropped around her chin, and it danced as she bobbed her head in time with the music. Her voice was perfect, clear, and a little husky like it used to be. There was only the faintest hint of the time that had passed since she'd sung like this before.

_White lines, will bring me home_…home…home…Toronto, always Toronto, and lazy days in the studio, work turning into play and play into work, the Chrome Cat with its bad lighting and that crappy couch, cold Sunday afternoons on Jude's front porch, laughing in the Viper with its roof down in the late spring, him driving with her in the passenger seat…home…Toronto…he missed it dearly. Not just the city, of course, but the city how it used to feel, with Jude by his side. _White lines, will bring me home_…but he knew it was different now, that home wouldn't feel the same way. He could go back to Toronto next week but it wouldn't feel like it had when he'd left just a few days earlier. This onslaught of memories would stay with him, more permanently than before, reminding him of a home that was far better, a home from a few years earlier, when she had been home for him. _She had been home for him_, he thought to himself as she sang. He was never going to find real peace in Toronto, or in Los Angeles, or anywhere else, for that matter, without her. It was _her _that was home, not a city or a house or an apartment anywhere, not GMajor or his drinking buddies or even Stella, the only legitimate family member he had left. _It was Jude. It had always been Jude._

"Tommy?"

"You sang," he said, breathlessly, shocked out of his mind's rambling path when she spoke.

"Sorry," she said sheepishly. "The guitar was there and I couldn't help myself."

"Don't apologize," he said, firmly. "Jude, it was—it was—"

"It was rusty," she laughed, with a warm, nostalgic smile, her eyes brighter than he'd seen them in the past few days. "We can go, or—"

"Jude, you have to go back to it," Tommy said, eyes wide, insistent. "To the music."

"What are you talking about?" She smirked, resting the guitar ever so gently against the wall again, looking down at it. Then she looked at him again, looked at how badly he wanted her to say, 'Yes, Tommy, and will you be my producer?' But his face, full of earnest desperation, was not going to change her mind. She smiled kindly at him. "I don't want to get into this again, Tommy, really I don't. I'm sorry."

"That's okay," he sighed. "I understand."

She turned to face him, looking at him briefly, amazed at how some things could change so little and some things so much. It had been six years since she left Toronto for London and two since she left London for L.A. She hadn't spent this much time with Tommy since Toronto, right before she'd decided to leave for the sake of her music. Ironically, it hadn't taken long for her to give it up entirely. It was funny how all the parts of her life were so intertwined. It was like her connection to Tommy and her musical career and ambitions had hit a high together before dropping to zero. Only last week, both music and Tommy had been so far away from her current life. And then, like a whirlwind, both were back. They were crucially tied to one another, Tommy and her music, Jude knew that, she had always known that. London had been a test, a test of whether her music could survive without him beside her. She needed to know, needed that affirmation.

But as soon as she was gone, Tommy had ended all contact. He didn't return her calls or emails, simply blocked her out of his life. And as soon as he was gone from her life, so was her music.

And now it appeared that they were both back.

"Dinner?" He asked, and she nodded, silently, blinking back the onset of tears.


	4. The Reconnection

**Hi everyone, this story is finally making some real progress and I hope you all enjoy the direction I'm taking it. Not sure if I'm going to do one big final chapter or two regular-length ones, but regardless, the end of the story will probably make it up here within the next few weeks. I would love your comments and critique as always. This chapter is pretty important and I always appreciate your thoughts. Thank you!**

**4. The Reconnection**

He had even pulled her chair out, Jude thought to herself, as she gazed at him over the table. It was too perfect, so chivalrous, and so damn confusing.

It felt a lot like a date.

They were at a nice restaurant with lots of silverware and cloth napkins. Tommy ordered a steak (medium-rare) and Jude the pasta special. They shared a Caesar salad to start, the dish placed between them, both leaning in over the candlelit table, forks mingling.

It was a _lot _like a date, Jude admitted to herself as he talked and she laughed, but it was harder to place it in the context of their history. What were they? What were they _doing_? What did it all mean, anyway? And most of all, how could she justify the brutal way he'd broken her heart with the warm smile his presence instantaneously put on her face?

"Penny for your thoughts?"

She smiled. He was making _such _an effort, and she truly did appreciate it. She appreciated those small kindnesses, his small questions—how was work?—that few men she had dated ever seemed to ask. He asked about her new life in Los Angeles with a genuine curiosity she found, in all honesty, really nice. He was special, always had been, a rare breed, and he was even more thoughtful, more kind, than he had ever been when she'd known him the last time around.

"Just reminiscing," she smiled softly. "It's been a long time for us, Tommy Quincy."

"Sure has," he grinned. "When I first met you, you cut your own bangs in your bathroom and did math homework."

She laughed; he was right. "I was a kid."

"Not sure I would have changed anything, though," he revealed, looking at her pointedly.

She frowned in mock disbelief. "You're saying that you're glad I showed up in your life at 15 instead of 21?"

He nodded after a moment's thought. "For a long time, I wouldn't have said that. God, on your sixteenth birthday, when we kissed…I struggled so much knowing what I was doing felt so right and was, in so many other ways, so wrong."

"Age is a funny thing," Jude mused, fingering a blond lock with her fingers.

"It is," Tommy agreed. "If you had been older, there was no way I would have held off for so long. I wouldn't have been able to control myself."

"Would that have been so terrible?" She smirked coyly, lips curling up.

"I never would have gotten to _know _you, Jude," he said seriously. "We had years of friendship, of genuine friendship, that we probably would never have had if we'd been fucking around on the side."

She stayed quiet, wondering where he was going with this. She'd never heard him talk like this before. Their age difference had been crucial to the nature of their relationship in those years—as producer and musician, as friends, and as, well, more than friends—and she had never considered that it could have been different.

"I'm glad I know you the way I do," he said, clasping her hands in his across the table. "I'm glad we never got into anything heavy for a while, because it let us last this long."

"Tommy, we haven't lasted this long," Jude said awkwardly, shrugging, pulling away. "Our age difference meant that when I was ready to explore the world, you were ready to settle down. I haven't seen you in years, Tommy. I haven't _known _you in years. And I struggled for so long with the guilt, the shame, the lost dreams—"

"The guilt?" He asked, his eyes alive with feeling and with questioning.

"I wished that I didn't feel that inner need to go out and conquer," she explained, breathlessly. "I wished I could be content with Toronto and GMajor, with my life as it was. But I couldn't. London was just the first step, and I needed it so badly, wanted it so badly…" She sighed, closing her eyes.

"Go on," he urged, though he could tell these memories were painful for her, even more painful to recount to him. "I need to—I need to know."

She nodded, continuing. "God, I wanted so badly to tell myself that it didn't matter, my career, all those ambitions, but I couldn't do it, couldn't let go, and I _hated _myself for that for so long," she explained, her jaw set firmly. "If I had been 21 when I had won Instant Star, I would have been a much more mature musician, a more mature person…I would have been able to control those urges."

His eyes were on her when she looked up. He was staring at her with such visible love, such passion, that she almost had to look away.

"Jude," he breathed out, smiling broadly. "That ambition made you the musician you were—the best musician I _ever _worked with. I mean that, Jude. I wouldn't have taken that back, ever. I hate that I hurt you. I hate that I couldn't understand that you needed time, and experiences, and adventures—and that maybe I needed to let you go, just a little, so that those things could happen. But Jesus, Jude, you never did _anything _wrong."

"Tommy—"

"Back then, I loved you for your ambition, for all the dreams you had, for that inner drive," he began, clutching her hands tighter. Her eyes widened—_Big Eyes_, he used to call her. "I still love you for all those things, too."

"Tommy—"

"You need to know it, Jude. I need to know that you know it."

"I do know it, Tommy. I do." She looked at him for another moment before standing and grabbing his hands. "Come."

"Where are we going?" He asked as she pulled him through the restaurant, towards the handicapped restroom. "Jude?"

"Just go with it, Tommy Q," she said, breathlessly, leading them inside and locking the door as quickly as her shaky fingers could manage it.

She looked at him for another moment that seemed suspended in time before wrapping her delicate arms around his neck and kissing him deeply, pulling her body flush against his, kissing him with everything she had been saving for years and years.

"God, I love you," he whispered during a moment's breath, and she smiled into his mouth but didn't respond. He spun around, pressing her back against the wall, allowing her to wrap her legs around his waist. They were so close, now, and though they'd certainly made out in a bathroom or two back in their heyday, this time it meant something, something real.

Jude's simple black dress was riding up, leaving close to nothing between their yearning bodies. As Tommy kissed down her jawbone to her neck, she fumbled successfully with the button of his dark-wash jeans, pulling the zipper down with fervor. Soon he was out of the jeans and his boxers entirely.

When she reached for her own panties, he stopped her with his hand.

"Jude, is this…is this what you want?" He asked, hesitant, always making sure.

Her eyes sparkled. "This is what I want, Tommy," she said, a promise. "This is what I've always wanted."

With that, he dove, curling a finger inside the waistband and letting the flimsy black underwear float to the floor, holding her up with his hands on her hips, her ass, her thighs. Skin on skin, her and him, like they were uninterrupted, like the years that had passed since she'd been eighteen didn't matter; like the kiss on the balcony on her sixteenth birthday had counted; like the stolen kisses in the next two years, hidden and furtive, counted too; like he hadn't cut her out of his life when she moved to London; like this was an extension of their history, of their complex past, of the pain and hurt of a million moons ago.

If all of that pain brought them to this one day, this night, this moment in time, Jude thought, as she climaxed and pleasure flooded her mind, then it was all okay. It would all be okay.

…...

Tommy was lifted from the lull of sleep by a set of guitar chords that made him smile just upon hearing them—they were just that good.

He stayed in bed for a while, letting the music wash over him, feeling a sense of inner peace and contentment he hadn't recognized in a long time. Last night had been magical—and he felt like _such _a girly wimp using that word—but he had finally, finally reconnected with Jude, and not just physically, either. Last night she had opened herself up to him again, musically and emotionally, and he knew that it meant a lot coming from her. Jude was guarded and tough and sensitive, and he knew he had broken her heart perhaps a dozen times before. There was no real reason for her to trust him again, to let him in again, but she did. That was the true beauty of Jude—her innate ability to give him second chances (and tenth chances) when he needed them the most.

He crept out of her bedroom and saw her sitting on the floor, her back leaning against the sofa leg. God, she was beautiful, even early in the morning, _especially _early in the morning. Her hair was wavy and mussed, her eyes big and blue and sleepy, heavy-lidded. She was wearing underwear and his shirt from the night before, unbuttoned, and nothing else. She was perfect in his eyes, down-to-earth and relaxed and real, just like he had remembered her.

"Two songs in one twenty-four hour period, huh?" He noted, smirking, when she took a pause between lines of an as-yet-unfinished song.

"Two times in my bed in a week, huh, Quincy?" She retorted, the early hour not preventing her from spitting a quick reply back at him.

"Touche."

Tommy sat down beside her, running his fingers over her guitar. "Where have you been keeping it?"

"Linen closet. Behind the towels," she admitted with a gleam in her eye. "Sometimes I've wanted to pick it up so, so badly, and it's almost magnetic and I have to fight off the urge…"

He smiled. "I wish you wouldn't. The world deserves to hear you, Jude."

"So you've said," she smiled shyly, slightly embarrassed. "It feels right, now, all of a sudden. My music, I mean."

"Maybe it was the great sex?" He laughed and she elbowed him, dissolving into giggles. They felt young and comfortable.

"My inspiration," she said quietly, suddenly serious, looking at him fixedly. "Always been you, huh?"

"And all this time I thought you were singing about Shay," Tommy said, smiling as he received another prompt, sharp jab. "But really, this song is…it's great. It's beautiful. Is it a new one?"

"About an hour old," she smiled. "I'm sorry if I woke you."

"Don't be, I woke up happy just hearing it. It's perfect."

"You only heard a few chords from the bedroom," she noted. "It's not even done yet."

"It doesn't matter. Let me produce it," he said.

"Are you kidding?"

"Not at all." He stood, reaching for her hands, pulling her up with him. "This song is going to be the return of Jude Harrison, Instant Star, Toronto native, book jacket maven, best musician I've ever worked with."

She blushed at his compliments. "Tommy—"

"Please don't argue," he said, looking at her _so_ hopefully. "I don't think I could bear it if you don't say yes."

"You make this so hard," she said, her lips curled into a smile. "So I can't say no?"

"Nope."

"Do I have to come back to Toronto?"

"Yes. Preferably with me, on the flight I'm supposed to be on that leaves tomorrow afternoon."

"You make everything complicated, Tommy Q, anyone ever tell you that?"

He laughed, loudly. "Every day of my life."

"You're basically kidnapping me. Abduction! To another country."

"I'm returning you to your native land!"

"And I'm just supposed to quit my job? Just like that?"

"They must need book jackets in Canada, if you feel that inner, creative urge to write some historical fiction summaries."

"And my friends?"

"Do you have any? You haven't mentioned them—"

"Tommy!"

"Okay, okay. You can always visit, you know."

"You literally want me to abandon my life, my home, in L.A., and move back to Toronto, tomorrow."

"No, Jude," he said, grasping her hands in his, speaking emphatically and with such honesty that she couldn't help but smile as he said his piece. "You're not leaving home, you're _coming _home."

Nodding slowly, she walked towards the kitchen, and he heard the sounds of drawers opening and closing and silverware clattering and then a slow, steady drip.

"Jude!"

"_What_, Tommy?"

"So? So you'll come?" His voice was desperate and boyish and pleading. "God, Jude, I want you to come with me so badly. I need you to come, I just, I know this is going so fast, but I want—"

"Some coffee?" She peeked her head out of the kitchen. He was still and silent. "Do you want some coffee?"

"Coffee?"

"Tom, if I'm going to quit my job and pack up this apartment all in two days, I'm certainly going to need a coffee. Probably two. And so I am asking you," she paused, sidling up to him, wrapping her arms around his neck, her lips getting dangerously close to his exuberant grin. "And so I am asking you, _would you like some coffee_?"


End file.
